Air Supply
by lirodendron
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. One Shot. Sherlock's thoughts watching John at his grave. Stands alone but a companion to Dare Not.


He watched John silently, using a tree to hide his slim frame. He knew John would not see him, because he was not looking. The fiction had been convincing, as intended. Still, Sherlock could not help but be a little disappointed that John had not seen through it, even though if he had his life would be still in danger. It was for the best, he supposed.

John was very distressed, as was to be expected. Still, he had not quite anticipated quite such an extreme emotional reaction. Sherlock was quite taken aback by some of the things he was saying, although could not honestly say he was completely unmoved by them. He felt a slight stab of guilt for the state in which he had left his friend. John seemed to be the only person capable of eliciting guilt from him, and did so with annoying frequency.

Now, though, Sherlock had no one to blame but himself and that annoyed him further. He was not good with his emotions, when he had them, and even worse at deciphering those of others, especially as they related to him. Mycroft has gotten all that talent. He wasn't any more emotional than Sherlock, really, but he knew how to feign the proper emotion at the right time and that had made him popular. Sherlock had never cared to be popular.

He was a bit embarrassed by his display on top of St. Bart's. Of course most of it had been acting. He needed John and the world to believe in his fraud and subsequent suicide, and an emotional show would be the only credible way. He was rather touched that John had refused to believe in his guilt, despite his very convincing performance. And of course he had known from the start that he might have to jump and had prepared accordingly. But the plan was hastily conceived and though he had as much confidence in Molly's talents as he could have in any but his own, he still had realized there was a distinct chance that it would fail and he would meet his end.

His goodbye to John might well have been real, and that had made him weak near the end. He was surprised at his own willingness to jump, knowing he might actually die in disgrace, to save John and the others. Even without a back-up plan he supposed it was still the right thing do, though by staying alive he would likely go on to save more lives than the three Moriarty had been threatening. His death would likely have resulted in many more other deaths, on balance. But he had not done the math this time. He would jump, and if he lived all the better but if not, John would be safe. The strength of that need, the need for John to be safe, surprised him.

But it had worked. He was bruised and had had a persistent migraine for the past three days, but no permanent damage had been done. Now the real work began. He had to find and dismantle Moriarty's network and find proof enough to restore his good name before he could return, before he could reveal himself to John and they could go back to normal. He so wanted to do it now, to step out from behind the tree and say his name. The urge was strong. He had grown unaccustomed to working cases without John, to doing anything without John, really. It would be so much easier if John were with him. But to reveal himself now would undo everything. Moriarty's spies were doubtless watching, and if he stepped into the open both he and John would likely be dead within a day, even if they went into hiding. And it was harder to hide two than one.

The faster he took care of business the sooner they could go back to their life at 221B. He was not sure when it had gone from being his life to their life, but there was no sense in denying it. In fact, he realized he was pleased by it. He did not need a flatmate to help with the rent, of course. There was family money, and his needs were few. But as much as he had always preferred to work and live alone, he had sensed dimly that he should maintain at least some sort of connection with other people. Moriarty had been right, they were the same, and without at least nominal relationships he knew he might end up going truly insane. A flatmate seemed like a good solution. Someone to be there, but not a relationship that required much emotional engagement.

Unfortunately all the preceding flatmates had just been…flatmates. They had expected to have privacy and share chores. They had had no interest (and would have been of no use) in his cases, objected to offal in the refrigerator, called the police when he came home covered in blood, and all, in short order, moved out. He had all but given up when he met John. He never understood why, but John had gone along with everything. He protested, but allowed himself to be swept up in Sherlock's wake, to help with cases, to do the shopping and make the tea and do the washing up. He didn't leave.

Sherlock knew that somehow John's world had come to revolve around him. His world revolved around his work, but John was the thing that anchored that world. John made sure he ate. John put up with his moods, his rages, his manic episodes and bore them placidly, like a rock with ocean waves breaking over it. And John let him know when he'd gone too far, when he'd hurt someone too much for too little reason. John kept him human.

And John never left. Not really. He might storm out but he always came back. Even when he was gone, he was still with Sherlock. Sometime he would talk to John when he was not in the room, and sometime he would not notice John when he was there. John had become like his air supply, a thing not always visible, but ubiquitous and vital. Sometimes he pushed him on purpose, to see how much it would take before John would no longer forgive him. He knew he shouldn't, but he needed to be sure that when it came to it, John would still be there.

He knew that leaving John to assume his death now was testing those limits. It might take months or even years before it was safe enough to return. He had estimated a 96.3% chance that John would forgive him when he did return. But that 3.7% worried at him. He could not be completely sure that this was something John could get past, and did not have a plan for what he would do if John could not. Then there was the even more troubling 2.4% chance that John might do something…drastic… in his absence. He had warned Molly to be on the lookout for that, but he could not think of a way to bring that probability to 0. Other probabilities worried him as well.

The most likely scenario by far was that John would never return to Baker Street while Sherlock remained dead, that he would grieve and throw himself into his work at the surgery until Sherlock returned. But that was not assured by any means. There was a 21.2% chance that John would in fact return to Baker Street and attempt to resume their work on his own. This would be dangerous for him, and although John had surprised Sherlock on several occasions, his powers would never match Sherlock's and with Moriarty's network still in place he would likely find himself quickly in peril.

Worse still, there was a 16.1% chance the John would attempt to investigate and avenge Sherlock's death on his own, surely leading to his demise if Sherlock could not prevent it. There was also a 15.3% chance that John would attempt to move on with his life more quickly than anticipated, find new work and start dating. This possibility worried Sherlock almost as much as any other. What if he was married when Sherlock returned? He was confident in his ability to dispose of a girlfriend or a fiancée, but a wife was another matter. What would John do? He did not like to think of it. Best to make sure there wasn't time for such a thing to occur before his return.

John was leaving now. Sherlock saw him walk over and gently lay a hand on the corner of the headstone, as John had laid a hand on his own shoulder so many times. When his nerves were raw and his mind was screaming for something new to engage it and he was jumping out of his skin with boredom, when he was so submerged in a case that he had not slept or eaten in days, when he was beginning to feel the lack of drugs and cigarettes and his whole body was shaking, suddenly he would feel that hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Sherlock, you must eat something."

"Sherlock, calm down."

It would snap him back to the real world. Even when he gave an obnoxious answer to his friend's concern, the touch of that hand was real and firm and soothed him, as much as he could ever be soothed. No, this state of separation could not be allowed to continue longer than strictly necessary. He watched intently until John was out of sight. Then he turned up his collar and began the hunt.


End file.
